Giry's Phantom
by EarwenLalaith
Summary: The title is pretty self explanatory. Mind you, this is not a fluffy fic, it's not uber angsty either. It's kinda in between. It goes through various events involving Meg and Erik. First POTO fic, so if it sucks, that's my cheezy excuse. ALW movie based.
1. Introduction: An Artistic Domain

Introduction: An Artistic Domain

Ever since I was very young, I've lived at the Opera Populaire. I've known little else of a home, besides this opera house. It has been my life, my dreams, and my artistic domain. I've grown as an artist, in this sacred place. If anything happened to it, I would be the first to rage war on they who caused any damage to my home. On the same note, I have always been a little afraid of this place. Ever since I was four, young enough to run around the entire opera house, but not old enough to understand the consequences of such actions, I knew there was something wrong with the Opera Populaire. I'd been to other opera houses, many of them, with mama, not one of them was as eerie as the Opera Populaire. Mind you, it looked like ever other opera house, a large wide stage, opera boxes on each side of the large auditorium, seats lined up in front and large red velvet curtains. I contemplated the difference all the time, every moment I could. Yet I could never discover it, until I heard of the tale of the Phantom of the Opera. I became instantly fascinated by a man I had never met, a man I had only heard of. I wanted to know more about him. He sounded so interesting, Christine was less than thrilled at the prospect of a phantom; she was too busy worrying about her Angel of music. I was too young, perhaps, to be in love, but I fancied him, the phantom. He was dark, he was mysterious and although he was rumored to be from hell, I did not heed to that. To me, he was not from hell; he was just a man like others, only…better. I began to build myself routes through the opera house, trying to find my way around the place.

Now I think about it, perhaps I had been foolish to assume he would be visible enough for me to see. I was so anxious to be so many things. I wanted to be the one to tame the Phantom, I wanted to be the one to triumph over all the other ballet rats, I wanted to be the most known ballerina in the Opera Populaire's history, I wanted the Phantom to notice me. This last was perhaps the most childish and ridiculous, but it was the most important. Especially once Christine Daae came to the opera house, and I knew she could sing, and I knew the Phantom took an instant interest in her. This is my story, the story of my home, Opera Populaire, and the story of my Phantom, Erik. I will not pretend this is a cheerful tale, full of laughs and romantic nothings, without a care in the world. No, this is a true tale, and therefore, a tale full of joyful sadness. It is not pure despair, nor is it pure happiness. It is the truth. And that is all I will say.

_Meg Giry, 1920 _

A/N: This is my FIRST POTO fic so I hope it's not too bad. The chapters will get a lot longer, but this is just the intro. Of course, it'll be an _implicated _Meg/Erik, but mostly focus on what I think happened during the course of Meg's life at the Opera Populaire. I know it's weird I'm doing this all at the end, but I didn't wanna interrupt your reading at the beginning.

I don't own POTO or any of the charries, I own a bit of the plot. Yup.

Please read and review, I'd love if you do. 3


	2. Chapter 1: White Paris

Chapter 1

White Paris

Meg loved Paris at that time of year; Christmas. The streets were covered in a white blanket of snow, shops twinkling with decorations and newly arrived toys. Children caroling loudly with their parents were a sight visible down every street. She loved walking down the sidewalks, peering through the shop windows, as her mother told her tales of how she used to celebrate Christmas, when she was younger. Meg loved coming back to the Opera Populaire, with little snowflakes adorning her blonde head, her cheeks pink with cold as she tried to focus on her ballet lessons, which became so very difficult, as winter approached. As a gust of cold wind passed her, Meg shivered, pulling her warm velvet cloak closer around her tiny body. Madame Giry put a hand on her daughter's shoulder, continuing their walk.

"Walking," she told Meg, "Is an exercise that can be executed at any time, in summer or winter."

Madame Giry tried to take Meg out on walks almost every week, if not every day. Meg did not mind the cold. She nodded and continued on, looking all around her, as any curious child would. Meg paused for a moment, when they came to the nearest costume shop. She pressed her tiny face to the window, looking at all the difference costumes, of all shapes, sizes and colors. She could see workers bustling around the shop, and a pretty girl with auburn hair standing on a stool, three woman pinning different fabrics to her in all directions. She could see a whole shelf against one of the walls, full of beautiful masks; exotic masks, animal masks, clown masks. Meg longed to go and try on all of them, just for fun. But she knew the shop owners would never let her. Sighing, she returned her attention to the window and her eyes widened. There, on display, was a beautiful pale blue dress, with a flowing tulle skirt, and little jewels sewn into it. The straps were pure Austrian crystals, the top half of the dress satin. Meg grinned widely. "Maman, look!" she said, eyes wide.

Madame Giry smiled down at her daughter. "If you became a ballerina, ma chérie, you shall have a dress just like this one."

Meg nodded fervently. "I shall practice hard, maman. I promise I shall!" her eyes never left the beautiful dress, and soon she noticed a pair of ballet slippers that matched it, with the same beautiful Austrian crystals sewn onto them. She desired little in her life, but she did desire that costume more than anything. It was all she wanted for all the Christmases in her life. Sighing, she looked away from the costume shop, continuing on walking.

Madame Giry wished she could pay for such a luxurious dress for her only daughter, but she knew it was not possible. _Not yet, anyways. _Besides, she reasoned, Meg was still so young. She had plenty of time to merit a dress like the one in the shop window. She followed her daughter, when dark clouds began to gather over the city. "Meg, it looks like we are going to have another storm. We ought to get back."

Meg halted, turning to face her mother. She looked up at the sky, as a snowflake fell on her face. She nodded slowly. "I suppose you are right, maman. Let's go back," she could not hide the slight disappointment in her voice. Nonetheless, she followed her mother back towards the Opera Populaire, up the streets, where carriages were coming back and forth, horses neighing wildly. Meg wondered what it was like, to be rich enough to own a carriage, and be able to ride in it all the time, never feeling the wondrous feeling of nature in winter, of snow on your nose, of wind blowing through your hair. To Meg, it was almost unimaginable. She grew up with those sights, sounds and feelings. It was part of her. As her mother opened the back door of the Opera Populaire, Meg couldn't help but sigh. She was back in the opera house. She took one look over her shoulder at the white Paris, and then walked into the warm artificialness of the opera house.

"You run along to your room," Madame Giry told her daughter, as she looked up at the top floors. "I'll be along for your classes shortly."

Meg nodded, giving her mother a quick caress. She knew she ought to have gone to her room, like she told her mother she would, but she did not want to. Instead, looking over her shoulder quickly, she broke into a slight run up one of the spiraling staircases, leading to a dark hallway. Meg looked around again and then skipped over to the end of the hallway, pressing her tiny hand against the wall. It creaked and pushed back slightly. Biting her lip, Meg continued on pushing, until there was enough room for her to slip in and push the wall back into position. Her heart fluttered wildly in her chest, as it always did when she came to one of these secret hallways in the Opera Populaire. She knew they were everywhere, and she had only discovered five of them. The tale said that the Phantom created them to be able to have complete control over the whole opera house. Whether it was true or not, Meg did not heed to it. She continued on down the even darker hall, feeling her way around the place. She felt her way towards a small wooden table, where a candle was dimly lit, barely any light at all. Meg shrugged. It was better than nothing.

She barely needed light though, in all honesty. She knew her way around like the back of her hand. She came to a large doorway, covered by a green velvet curtain. She pushed the curtain aside, walking into the room. It was well-lit now, in this room, with large crates scattered everywhere. Meg smiled, walking to one of the larger crates, pushing it open. She knelt beside it, putting the candle beside her. She began fiddling with the contents of the crate. It was full of beautiful masks. Masks she could try on without fear of getting scolded. She always came here, after walking in front of the costume shop. It helped ease her want for those luxurious costumes. She found a pink feathered mask and giggled, fixing it over her eyes. She ran over to a cracked mirror, giggling. She ran over to another crate, pulling out a matching fan. She pouted her lips, batting her tiny eyelashes. "Oh monsieur, you are too kind!" she squeaked.

"Too kind, am I?" came a deep, dark voice from one of the corners. Meg squeaked, turning around, her eyes wide. She dropped the fan, her heart ramming in her tiny chest. She back away towards the door. "W-who's there?" she managed to say, her throat suddenly very dry. Why did she disobey her maman? What if it was a murderer?! What if she was in danger?

"Little Meg Giry, isn't it?" the voice continued, as if it hadn't heard her. Meg knew it was a man. He had a nice voice. It was low, and musical. She wondered if he was a singer. _Murderers aren't singers, you weirdo. _

"Why should I tell you?" Meg said defiantly, running more on bravado than anything else. She was so frightened, her face had gone deathly pale. _I am sorry, maman. I promise I will never ever come down here again, if I get out alive. _

The voice laughed, the sound ringing throughout the whole room. Meg shook with terror. "You should tell me," the voice said. "Because I asked you nicely. Didn't your mother tell you that when someone asks something nicely, you are supposed to be nice to them?"

"She also told me not to talk to strangers," Meg snapped, shaking. "You're a stranger. So I shouldn't be talking to you."

"Am I, little Giry?" the voice challenged, in a sceptical tone. Meg was frightened. She didn't want to talk to this thing anymore. She wanted to go back. She shook her head. But then she paused as a thought entered her head. What if he was… her eyes widened. "Are you the Phantom, t-the Phantom of the Opera?" she asked, her voice laced with excitement.

There came no answer. Meg grew angry. "Are you the Phantom or not?!" Meg was beginning to wonder if she'd just imagined the whole encounter. She hesitantly walked over to the corner, picking up her candle. There was no one there, not even a hint that someone HAD been there. She shook her head, running out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Meg ran all the way back to her room, panting heavily. She shuddered, closing her eyes, sitting on her bed. Had she seen the Phantom she was so curious about? Was that really him? She didn't know, but she hoped it was. She leaned back on the bed, exhaling slowly. She looked out the small circular window next to her bed, seeing new snowflakes dancing down onto the streets. She sighed, sitting up. Ballet would start soon. She got dressed, grabbed her shoes and walked down to her mother's studio. As she walked, she couldn't shrug the feeling she was being watched. She stopped when she heard footsteps over her. "Don't be foolish, Meg, it's just the other girls," she told herself quietly, and quickened her pace.

Her mother's studio was not the loveliest room in the whole opera house, but it was large enough for the girls to practice and it permitted Madame Giry to teach and demonstrate what she wanted her girls to know. Meg was about to open the door when she heard her mother, her voice sharp, and the person she was talking to, quite angry.

"Antoinette I am losing my patience with you," Meg frowned. No, not that voice… she shook her head. It couldn't be. Had her mother caught her? Was she in trouble? Was the man in the attics come to tell her mother she had been in the crates?

"You always do," she heard her mother say. "But Erik, I do not want this to happen again. You can bar it off. You know you can!"

"Even if I did, she'd find a way through to it. You know she would. She's just like you," she heard the man said in a stern voice, unlike the amused soft one he had used with her.

"Go Erik, she'll be here soon," Madame Giry sighed. "Just be careful, that's all I am going to tell you."

Meg heard footsteps walking towards the door where she was standing but then they stopped and turned to another direction and were gone. Biting her lip, Meg opened the door slowly, walking in. "Maman?"

Madame Giry turned and looked over at her daughter. "Ah, Meg, you are early, _ma petite_."

Meg nodded, putting her shoes on one of the benches, sitting down and putting them on carefully, tying up the ribbons as three more girls walked into the room. Meg stretched out her legs and then walked over to her mother. "Maman…why is there never anyone sitting in box five?"

Madame Giry chuckled, shaking her head. "I have told you this a thousand times at least, Meg."

"I know, but tell me again? Once more?" Meg pleaded, looking up at her mother.

Madame Giry sighed. "It is the box, they say, of the Phantom. He does not permit anyone to come into his box. It is forbidden."

Meg nodded. Why box five though? Why that box? She was curious. After two gruesome hours of stretching and spinning, Meg decided to go up to box five. She put her ballet things in her room and slowly, silently, crept up to the box. Meg loved sneaking around the opera house, it was obvious enough, but she had never gone up to box five. Did she think she would meet the Phantom? She barely knew herself. She was just dying to go up there. She pushed the velvet curtains in the doorway out of the way and swallowed, walking into the box. It seemed like any other box, nothing special. Why did the Phantom want it for himself? "Curious…"

At that moment, a small white envelope fluttered down in front of her. Meg's eyes widened, but she did not flinch. She went to get the envelope. The seal was a red skull. Her heart fluttered in excitement. She knew the Phantom sealed his letters with that. She tore it open hastily; glad her mother had taught her how to read.

_Be careful, Little Giry. Strangers creep in every corner of this opera house. You would do well to stop your little adventures. O.G. _

Meg frowned. She didn't like the sound of that. She folded the letter slowly, putting it into her skirt pocket, and she ran out of the opera box, not seeing the dark figure sitting in one of the dark corners of the box, nodding curtly.

Meg walked back to her room, pulling the letter out again slowly, careful not to bend the corners. She treated it like it was porcelain, so delicate and fragile. He had nice writing, the Opera Ghost. It was scribbled and slanted, and graceful. The paper was lined with black ink. She ran her hand over the skull seal, biting her lip.

One of the other girls sharing her room came bounding up the stairs, curly auburn hair bouncing. "Ooh! What is that, Meg? A love note?" she giggled.

Meg's eyes widened. She shook her head. "No, are you crazy, Giselle! I am too young for that sort of thing."

Giselle smirked. "Are you?" she reached to grab the letter, but Meg pushed her hand away, pocketing the note preciously.

"Get away!" she exclaimed. "It's mine! Not yours!"

She pulled the covers over her small body and turned away from the giggling girls, sighing. She put her hand over the pocket were the letter rested. If anyone knew she had gotten a note like that from the Opera Ghost, she didn't want to think of the trouble it would cause her. She closed her eyes, trying to let sleep claim her. And claim her it did, as the wind seemed to sing a quiet lullaby to her. If Meg listened hard enough sometimes, she was sure the wind was calling her name in a sweet song, as the snowflakes continue to fall in their sweet dance of winter.

A/N: ARGHNESS! This is STILL a short chapter. ( That does not make me happy. I'll try to make it longer for the next one. Still, read and review please. That makes me happy. And when I am happy, I write more.


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